At first, Ayla thought she imagined it.

  A ripple—so faint it barely disturbed the surface of the water. The crystal sphere warmed under her palm, like something waking up.

  A few villagers leaned forward.

  Then the glow appeared.

  A thread of red curled through the water—thin as a hair, bright as an ember. Before anyone could react, blue followed, sliding over it like ink spreading through paper.

  Gasps fluttered through the square.

  “Fire and water?” someone whispered. “That can’t—”

  But it didn’t stop.

  Green bloomed next, unfurling like leaves in spring. Gold shimmered beneath it—sharp, metallic, precise. And finally, a slow, steady brown, grounding everything like soil after rain.

  Five colors. Five elements.

  All shining at once.

  The water swirled into a glowing whirlpool, colors twisting, pushing, struggling—like five voices trying to shout over each other.

  The crystal sphere flared too—chaotic streaks of red, blue, green, gold, and brown flashing inside its core.

  Ayla’s breath hitched.

  The energy wasn’t painful, just overwhelming—like holding too much light at once. She wanted to let go, but she couldn’t tell if that would make it worse.

  “Enough,” Examiner Lyran ordered sharply.

  Ayla yanked her hands back.

  The colors vanished instantly—leaving behind nothing but clear water and a silent, waiting crystal, as though nothing had happened at all.

  Except the entire village had seen it.

  Silence crushed the square.

  Not admiration.

  Not excitement.

  Something colder.

  Recognition.

  “Five elements…” an older man murmured.

  “Unstable,” another muttered. “Dangerous.”

  “No child can train with five. It always scatters.”

  Ayla stood frozen, hands dripping, wishing she could shrink into the ground.

  The ink-stained tester approached the basin, face tight. He dipped a metal stick into the water, watched it reflect nothing but plain sunlight.

  “Five-element reaction confirmed,” he said quietly. “No dominant attribute. High conflict. Grade… F.”

  The word landed like a stone.

  Not E.

  Not D.

  F.

  The lowest. The worst.

  Alya’s stomach dropped. She didn’t know what she expected—but hearing it aloud felt like being erased.

  Jorin snorted somewhere behind her. Mila looked away. Parents whispered behind cupped hands, trying to hide pity—and failing.

  Ayla kept her chin steady, even as her pulse hammered painfully in her throat.

  Her mother stood at the edge of the crowd, eyes glistening—not with disappointment, but with something fierce and terrified.

  Examiner Lyran exhaled slowly, studying Ayla with a gaze too sharp to be kind.

  “Five-element roots are rare,” she said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “And rarely successful.”

  The elder wrung his hands. “Then—she will stay here?”

  The examiner’s jaw tightened.

  Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

  “No. The Academy is required to take one child from each registered village per cycle.”

  A collective shift of air rippled through the crowd.

  Ayla blinked. She suddenly felt weightless—like she might float away.

  “But we already have Lami Redfern—Grade B,” the elder said, voice hopeful, perhaps desperate.

  “Yes,” Examiner Lyran replied. “And we will take her.”

  Lami’s family burst into relieved tears.

  “And,” Lyran continued, “we will take Ayla Whitlock.”

  A stunned silence followed—thick, unmoving, unreal.

  Ayla’s heart stuttered.

  “Why?” someone blurted. “She has the worst root!”

  “Because Academy law demands equal opportunity,” the ink-stained man said quietly. “Even for those unlikely to succeed.”

  Ayla wished he hadn’t added that last part.

  She stared at her wet hands, fingers trembling now, as though the five colors still lived beneath her skin.

  “Training will be… difficult,” Lyran warned. Not unkind, just brutally honest. “Progress may be slow. Expectations will be low. You will not be treated gently.”

  Ayla didn’t flinch.

  She had never been treated gently.

  Lyran’s expression flickered—only for a heartbeat, but Ayla saw it.

  Curiosity.

  Maybe even interest.

  The examiner straightened. “Pack only what you can carry. Report to the carriage at sunset. Farewells should be brief.”

  Ayla nodded. Her voice felt trapped somewhere behind her ribs.

  The testing continued, but the square felt different—quieter, heavier. The other children avoided looking at her, as if five colors might be contagious.

  When the final result was announced, villagers slowly drifted away, murmuring like a river of doubt.

  Ayla stayed still, hands clasped, braid sticking to her neck in the heat.

  Her mother found her before she could move.

  “Oh, Ayla…” she whispered, pulling her into a tight embrace.

  Ayla stiffened—then melted into it, burying her face in the fabric of her mother’s dress.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, voice cracking. “I didn’t want—”

  Her mother lifted her chin gently. “No. Don’t apologize for existing.”

  Ayla blinked rapidly.

  “You’re leaving,” her mother said, voice trembling. “And you’re scared. So am I. But scared isn’t the same as doomed.”

  “But everyone—”

  “Everyone is wrong,” her mother cut in, fierce and certain. “They only see what you are today. Not what you will become.”

  Ayla swallowed hard.

  She wanted to believe that.

  Truly.

  Her mother cupped her cheeks. “Promise me something.”

  Ayla nodded, throat tight.

  “Don’t fight back with anger. Fight back with patience. With thinking. With time.”

  Ayla exhaled.

  “I will.”

  Because she always had.

  Her mother smiled—small, sad, shining. “Good girl. Now go home. We’ll pack.”

  They walked together, step by step, across the dusty square—past the well, the shuttered windows, the wilting fields.

  Everything Ayla had ever known.

  Everything she was about to leave behind.

  Halfway home, a shadow slid across the ground.

  A horse.

  Ayla looked up.

  Examiner Lyran sat atop the white mare, reins loose in her hand. She didn’t speak at first—just studied Ayla the way a mathematician studied a difficult equation.

  “You didn’t panic,” she finally said. “Most children do when the basin reacts like that.”

  Ayla blinked. “…Should I have?”

  Lyran’s mouth twitched—almost a smile, almost not.

  “No. Panic never helps.” She paused. “Remember that.”

  Ayla nodded.

  “And Ayla?” Lyran added, voice lower.

  “Yes?”

  “Do not let anyone convince you that five is less than one.”

  Before Ayla could respond, Lyran turned her horse and rode away.

  Ayla stood rooted in the dusty road, heart pounding with something she couldn’t name.

  Fear.

  Hope.

  Both.

  Her mother touched her arm. “Come. Sunset will come faster than we want.”

  Ayla looked toward the distant hills—the direction the carriage would take. The world beyond Stonehollow felt enormous, terrifying, impossible.

  And yet—

  She was going.

  No matter what others believed, no matter the grade carved onto her destiny—

  She was leaving.

  For the first time in her life, the future wasn’t a cage.

  It was a door.

  Ayla took a breath, steady and deep.

  Then she stepped toward it.

  https://www.patreon.com/cw/dear_67vi